


light and wick

by marginaliana



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: M/M, discussion of Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Watching and being watched.
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	light and wick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [libraralien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraralien/gifts).



He's meant to be pulling up the fish pots from the edge of the sea, but there's a hollow between the rocks where the ground is soft after the last rain. His back is aching, but that's not why he lies down. From here he can see the lighthouse tower, proud and tall, uncompromising, and he's not stupid enough to pretend it doesn't make him feel what it makes him feel.

His hand on his cock is warm and damp from the sea air; it drags over his skin like wet sackcloth. When he lifts his thumb to his mouth he can taste salt, but it's more than that. 

The light above him isn't circling yet, the late morning too bright, but he can almost feel it nonetheless, sharp enough to pierce the sky and break it open. Tom keeps a tight fist on that light and the tower, working it himself alone even though Ephraim would share the work if only he were allowed. 

What would it be like to control the light? To own it, to keep it inside himself and release it only when he chose to. To own the tower and be the lighthouse keeper rather than the wickie. 

He wonders what it would be like, as the other – wonders if he'll end up finding out. Tom's not the type to shrink from that, if he wants it, and there's enough of a fight in him that Ephraim knows himself for the wickie if it comes to that. 

He ought to know what he's getting into, more than he did when coming here. He could find a rock, if there were one smooth enough and long enough among the shards and crags, but he knows it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be anything like.

* * *

The lad is shirking again, but Tom won't rag him about it, not this time, not if it'll hold him back. He can see the boy through the glass; it's bright enough that he knows himself hidden in shadow up here and so he can watch.

It was the arch of Ephraim's back against the muddy soil that had drawn his attention first, but now it's the arch of his cock that keeps Tom's eye. The lad is a sturdy one, strong, arms muscled from work and thick about the thighs. Tom imagines himself pushing the boy to the damp floorboards beside the locked cabinet, imagines himself pushing between bare thighs until the boy gives in and takes the ration he's given.

Would he be hot inside? Tom has touched the light just after dawn, when it's at its strongest. He's drowned himself in it, or near enough; he's burned. He's been wickie and now has one in his turn, but the light will always be the keeper of him. 

The light would give him this – in fact, it already has. It's brought the boy here.

Tom lets himself imagine it again, spreading the boy open. Tie him down with rope or siren's weed or the sheets from his own bed, half soaked in sweat and what he'd left behind two nights before. Biting at the back of the lad's neck, the thin divot of his back, the mound of each buttock. Spreading him open further and further until he cries out; spearing into him with the wet press of his tongue.

Would he taste the sea, the oil in the reservoir, the burnt biscuits from their stores, the kerosene? Would he taste oily fowl, and danger, and fear?

Tom puts his hand against the glass in front of him, a brace against the shiver of that thought. He imagines the light, still quiescent behind his back, coming on with a flare as he takes the boy at last. The hard heat from above him and the soft heat from below. 

Someday the light will burn him out, char the flesh from his bones and scent the air with his ashes, let the birds be dusted with the gift of it. He wonders what the lad will do when it happens. Take the keys and climb the tower and become the keeper and the kept. Think he's free for a few blessed minutes before he's shackled again.

Below, Ephraim is coming to climax, hand jerking quickly, back arched, lips parted, chest heaving with urgent breaths. Tom keeps his hand braced on the glass.


End file.
